<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>je suis malade by heme</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26740354">je suis malade</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/heme/pseuds/heme'>heme</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Naruto</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:47:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>638</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26740354</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/heme/pseuds/heme</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Even shots of whiskeys tastes the same.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Deidara/Sasori (Naruto)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>je suis malade</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Tribute to Dalida and the song of the identical title.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He dragged a piece of graphite over delicate wood, marking fine lines of draft over the piece of canvas. Noises of solid rubbing against solid – gentle, melodic – a soothing tune of structure.</p><p>Repetitive, yet the same delicately distinct. It was creativity, the bedrock of artistry. Art was what could soothe his nerves.</p><p>Perhaps the intolerance of mistakes was essentially a tensed crossbow, loaded with an arrow, but to revel himself under the expertise accumulated from years of experience… was – no, is – although hard to admit, brings him calmness and happiness from the ego boost.</p><p>He shared his workroom with an intruder. Speaking about intrusion of privacy, he recalled, the other person often strides in, obviously drunk and high on previous shots of whiskey, knocking pieces of objects over.</p><p>And the rambles go on, circling along lines he could quote without hesitation and emotional fluctuation: art is fleeting! Transient! The intruder swiped an uncontrolled arm in a half – arc, sending pottery and puppets equally alike, flying off tables and shelves, “Art is to be destroyed! The instant of destruction is what makes it art. Something raw and real!” Punctuated with random nasal grunts.</p><p>The aftermath was always a velvety reply, “You are drunk.” Not even putting down the work at hand.</p><p>Somewhat offended, the other person collapsed into a spreaded out position on the floor, knees casually bent, “I’m not. You see, I can still think straight, un.”</p><p>He – always that annoying logical positivist, was closing on solipsism at times. The puppeteer brushed the thought away, solipsism as a descriptor of the mercurial annoyance was tainting the word solipsism. Solipsism what? Centrism of the ego was a better fit. Disgustingly self – serving, like any other human.</p><p>Words ending with -ism. Categorisations, the lumping of variations together under an umbrella. It reminded him of politics.</p><p>Politics, groups of people serving their selfishness under a pretty guise. During his younger years, he argued with a fellow on the topic of the driving force behind politics. A waste of time, now that it seems, useless indeed to convince others of his own epistemological standpoint.</p><p>He did not acknowledge the provocation. Only picking out a carving knife to make soft indents on the wooden surface.</p><p>“You know,” the irritating voice followed on, after seeing no response, “I don’t even know what my whiskeys tastes like, un. I grab some shots in the evening, and they all tastes the same.”</p><p>He knew, for someone who values their physical sensations to such a ridiculous extent, to utilise explosives in order to push their boundaries further and further, the deprivation of said sensations – was…</p><p>“Fucking shit, un.”</p><p>Interpretation of minds by analogy is intriguing. Using a spare ear, he narrowed down on the monologue.</p><p>“Man, Sasori, you’re just like a puppet. Sitting there, no response whatsoever. To anything. To everything. Does it really hurt that much to show just a little -” Raising two fingers and the corresponding arm, he pinched at air, “emotion?”</p><p>It was a stalemate. A positive implies that he was hurt emotionally. A negative implies that he could show emotions with no problem.</p><p>Squeezing the neutral out, is a null set of emotions a subset of emotions?</p><p>Silence.</p><p>A minute later, he moved to the bathroom, and locked the door.</p><p>Dull noises of clothing falling to the tiled floor.</p><p>In the mirror, the basic anatomies of the human body were present. Though the numbers and counts were different.

</p><p>A leg was a prosthetic, constructed from titanium and carbon – fibre reinforced polymers.</p><p>He was disgustingly human, with the disgustingly strong emotions. He voluntarily killed his human self, rising from the shower of blood spilled during the operation.</p><p>The superposition of flesh and mechanics, simultaneously arising from the reflection and his mind.</p><p>In a low voice, he spoke to his two selves, “Je suis malade.”</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>